


Dancing on the Razor's Edge

by lonelywalker



Category: Brimstone
Genre: M/M, Razors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bathroom fun with Zeke and Lucifer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing on the Razor's Edge

Ezekiel Stone's usual morning bathroom routine has been curtailed a little ever since he was returned to life. This is partly due to a lack of finances - good shampoo and conditioner are a pretty big investment for someone who has to survive on $36.27 per day - and partly because the circumstances of his supernatural reanimation seem to dictate that he never needs to shave.

He had tried it once, early on, when Father Horn had been happy to let him have the run of a fully-equipped bathroom for an hour or so. It had been _glorious_ to relax in the pure decadence of a bubble bath, to wash the grit and dust of Hell out from between his toes and the crevices of his ears, to scrub himself into a pinkly clean freshness he hadn't enjoyed in years. And he'd shaved off all the stubble, grinning at himself in the mirror. A new man. A new life. A second chance.

The next morning, he'd woken up with another $36.27 in his pocket, the taste of dust thick on his tongue, and the exact same amount of stubble on his jaw.

"You're not _alive_ , Ezekiel," the Devil had told him, merrily poking holes in his tube of toothpaste with a safety pin. "And it's really a bonus that you don't age. We can't have you doddering after demons pushing a walking frame, can we?"

Being unable to change his appearance had rankled at first. He'd hardly been in the best shape when he'd died, and although changing his clothes seems to be possible, his budget limits him on that front too. So much for moving on.

Still, he makes sure that he has a shower every morning. The demons he's chasing might not mind the smell, but he has to interact with the living as well, and stinking to high heaven might just ruin what chance he has of getting a few favors tossed his way.

So he just happens to be standing naked in his bathroom, wiping the mirror clear of water, when the Devil pops into view behind him. It happens more often, these days. It used to be that Zeke's diabolical employer would meet him on the street, or in a cafe. Lately it's been the couch, the bathroom, and even his bed on a few occasions. It hardly even fazes him now. At least the Devil smells good.

Tastes good too.

"Unngh hmmin," Zeke says around his toothbrush.

The Devil beams, and looks around him, straightening his tie. "Good morning to you too, Ezekiel. Have you seen the news this morning?"

It's so obviously a rhetorical question that Zeke just keeps on brushing.

"There was _quite_ an entertaining pile-up on one of the freeways. Don't you just _love_ that... well, it's sort of a squeak and then a _crunch_ as the..."

Zeke spits.

"Mm. Well, amid all that glorious chaos and the inevitable death toll was one Dennis Friedman - a dentist, as it happens, although not a very good one. Aren't you going to floss, Ezekiel?"

"So a dentist died. I'm losing track... is that good or bad? Every one I've ever been to seemed like he was one of yours."

The Devil picks up one of Zeke's disposable razors, running his thumb along the blade. "Ahhh... And normally you couldn't be more wrong, although the terrible _fear_ of that profession is certainly one of my minor accomplishments. But... where was I? Ah, yes. Mr. Friedman. According to some rather shaken witnesses, he apparently disappeared completely when his skull was horrifically penetrated by..."

Zeke gesticulates with his toothbrush. "I get the picture. So one of the 113 was taken out by accident. Let me guess - you're going to claim that invalidates our bargain?"

"Well, I _am_ tempted." Apparently disappointed in the cheap plastic razor, the Devil has turned it into an old-fashioned straight razor - something that Zeke imagines would be better suited as the weapon of a serial killer rather than the tool of a barber. "As you recall, our deal was that you - _you_ , Ezekiel, not anyone else, or acts of, well, accidents - would return 113 wayward souls to me."

Zeke spits again, and wipes his mouth on the corner of a towel. "What's the problem? You got your soul. I've got one less to catch. Everyone wins."

"Yes, but I _am_ a bit of a stickler for the small print..." The Devil seems to ponder this. "Ahhh, you know what we could do, Ezekiel?"

"Let's pretend I don't." Zeke eyes the razor, wondering if a pound of flesh might come into the Devil's reasoning somewhere. Hunting down demons minus a hand or a chunk of stomach would be no fun at all.

The Devil's smile, as usual, is all teeth and malicious intent. "We could have some _fun_."

"Oh God." It really is far too early in the morning for this. Much as Zeke's managed to get used to the Devil suddenly appearing at all times of the day and night, and has just about convinced himself that having a sexual relationship with a fallen angel is pretty much all right (given the circumstances), the Devil's idea of "fun" has never seemed entirely appealing. "What do you want us to do? Club baby seals?"

"Not at all." The Devil gives him a rebuking stare, and locks the blade of the razor into position. "I just thought you could do with a little grooming. Like it or not, you _are_ one of my representatives on Earth, and we certainly don't want to give the impression that the denizens of Hell are _quite_ as unkempt as you usually are."

Eyes on the blade, Zeke still manages to raise an eyebrow. "This from the guy who objected to me even brushing my teeth?"

"That was before I decided I wanted to kiss you on a regular basis," the Devil says, entirely reasonably, and in a flash the blade is cool against Zeke's unshaven cheek. "I honestly don't care _what_ state my hellhounds are in. But Satan's consort..."

"I'm not your consort," Zeke says hotly, without moving an inch.

"Well you're certainly not my _boyfriend_ ," the Devil says, his left hand gripping Zeke's head tightly while his right manipulates the blade. "How unseemly. I'm certainly not anyone's prom date, even if I do enjoy all the trauma and sexual promiscuity that event seems to promote."

"Unk," Zeke says, swallowing. He might not be able to feel pain normally, but the Devil can certainly hurt him, can draw blood, can leave scars. That's always been part of the appeal.

He's waiting for the feel of the blade cutting into his skin, but the Devil is still only looking at him, brow furrowed slightly as if contemplating something. "That said," the Devil says, finally, "I do rather enjoy the stubble. Rugged masculinity is something that's sorely lacking in angels."

Zeke is _just_ about to sigh in relief when the blade slides down, pressing against his jugular. And, suddenly, his heart rate is through the roof, and his groin is throbbing as the Devil pushes up against him.

"There," the Devil says, almost cooing as if calming a child. "That's better."

He can't be killed. Not this way. It has to be the eyes, now. But Zeke still reacts to the blade as if it's the threat of death half an inch away, can feel its edge as sharp as anything, able to cut through downy hairs, to slice into his skin without any effort at all. And once he's just about processed that, there's the Devil, mouth on his mouth, tongue teasing Zeke's tongue, his erection rubbing against the bulge in Zeke's pants.

Zeke wonders if it's possible to come out of sheer terror.

The Devil's breath is hot and wet on his throat, and Zeke flushes hotter still as he feels the blade just barely break the skin, feels what might as well be sweat trickle down his neck. He's so preoccupied by the razor that the Devil's free hand suddenly clutching his crotch is a shock, a shock that almost makes him take his own head off on the blade.

"Relax," the Devil purrs, his hand stroking, the razor nudging down a little as he leans in to kiss the wound all better. Zeke's never much believed in the sensuality of vampires, and perhaps it's only the cocktail of adrenaline and hormones in his system, but the sight of the Devil's lips smeared with his blood only makes Zeke want to kiss him more.

Against his better judgment, against every impulse of his terrified, aroused, disturbed body, Zeke relaxes.

"Good boy," the Devil murmurs, and then Zeke's tasting the coppery tang of blood on the Devil's tongue, taking deep breaths from the Devil's mouth, his eyes closed and his head spinning. But he doesn't think about the razor until he hears the clang of it dropping to the floor, and both of the Devil's hands curl into his hair, pulling him tighter in.

The Devil's tongue runs along Zeke's minty-fresh teeth, murmuring his approval. "So, Mr. Stone. Are we having fun yet?"

Zeke hooks a foot around the Devil's ankle and pushes, hearing the Devil's cry of surprise as he lands on wet tiles with a grin of quiet satisfaction. Zeke picks up the razor from the floor, and kneels down, straddling his diabolical lover. "Now I am."

So much for routine.


End file.
